“She is dead,” replied the old colossus, with an air both savage and jeering, which told only too plainly his intention of making away with her.

A moment of deep silence followed.

The duke saw, through the half-opened door, the three ladies and d’Artagnon.  At that crucial moment Etienne, whose sense of hearing was acute, heard in the cardinal’s library poor Gabrielle’s voice, singing, to let her lover know she was there,—­

   “Ermine hath not
    Her pureness;
    The lily not her whiteness.”

The hated son, whom his father’s horrible speech had flung into a gulf of death, returned to the surface of life at the sound of that voice.  Though the emotion of terror thus rapidly cast off had already in that instant, broken his heart, he gathered up his strength, looked his father in the face for the first time in his life, gave scorn for scorn, and said, in tones of hatred:—­

“A nobleman ought not to lie.”

Then with one bound he sprang to the door of the library and cried:—­

“Gabrielle!”

Suddenly the gentle creature appeared among the shadows, like the lily among its leaves, trembling before those mocking women thus informed of Etienne’s love.  As the clouds that bear the thunder project upon the heavens, so the old duke, reaching a degree of anger that defies description, stood out upon the brilliant background produced by the rich clothing of those courtly dames.  Between the destruction of his son and a mesalliance, every other father would have hesitated, but in this uncontrollable old man ferocity was the power which had so far solved the difficulties of life for him; he drew his sword in all cases, as the only remedy that he knew for the gordian knots of life.  Under present circumstances, when the convulsion of his ideas had reached its height, the nature of the man came uppermost.  Twice detected in flagrant falsehood by the being he abhorred, the son he cursed, cursing him more than ever in this supreme moment when that son’s despised, and to him most despicable, weakness triumphed over his own omnipotence, infallible till then, the father and the man ceased to exist, the tiger issued from its lair.  Casting at the angels before him—­the sweetest pair that ever set their feet on earth—­a murderous look of hatred,—­

“Die, then, both of you!” he cried.  “You, vile abortion, the proof of my shame—­and you,” he said to Gabrielle, “miserable strumpet with the viper tongue, who has poisoned my house.”

These words struck home to the hearts of the two children the terror that already surcharged them.  At the moment when Etienne saw the huge hand of his father raising a weapon upon Gabrielle he died, and Gabrielle fell dead in striving to retain him.

The old man left them, and closed the door violently, saying to Mademoiselle de Grandlieu:—­

“I will marry you myself!”

“You are young and gallant enough to have a fine new lineage,” whispered the countess in the ear of the old man, who had served under seven kings of France.